


The List, a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

by nickelsandcoats



Series: Christmas at the Watson-Holmeses [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hamish makes a Christmas list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The List, a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Hamish Watson-Holmes, created by valeria2067 [here](http://valeria2067.tumblr.com/post/11679232191/hamish-a-sherlock-john-ficlet-pairing). For more Hamish stories, go [here](http://hamish-watson-holmes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> This is Part I of a series of interconnected Christmas stories.

  


  
“He’s been awfully quiet up there,” John commented, looking up from his paper to his husband.

“Mmm.”

“It’s always a bad sign when they’re quiet for this long.”

Sherlock looked up from the scrapbook he was compiling of their latest case. “So go see what he’s up to. It’s probably nothing.”

“How many times were you up to nothing when you were six?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit.

John smirked and stood, stretching the kinks from his back. “I’m getting too old,” he complained as his back cracked again.

“Don’t say that,” Sherlock said quietly. His expression was fierce, but under it was an undercurrent of fear.

John’s face softened as he crossed the room and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. When he pulled away, Sherlock’s eyes were tightly shut, throwing his crow’s feet into sharp relief.

When John turned back at the stairs, his husband’s eyes were still closed, and his hands clenched into fists on his lap.

  
John knocked lightly at Hamish’s door as he opened it to reveal his son lying on the bed, legs swinging in the air as he hummed snatches of carols under his breath.

“What’re you up to, then?” John asked as he sat down on the edge of the bed, bending down to see what Hamish was writing.

Hamish looked up and quickly covered the paper. “Mrs. McDowell said we had to write up a wish list so that whoever we believed in would know what we wanted for Christmas. So that’s what I’m doing.”

“Can I see it, Hal?”

“No!”

John blinked.

“I mean, not yet, Dad. Not till I’m done.”

“All right. Come down in a bit, yeah? Almost time for your snack.”

Hal nodded distractedly, already scribbling again. John ruffled Hal’s hair and shut the door back over as he went back downstairs.

Sherlock had migrated to the sofa, and looked up at John as the doctor sat down next to him and drew him close, kissing Sherlock’s temple and then his lips.

Sherlock sighed as they parted. “I’m sorry, John. It’s just—I don’t like to think about you getting old. About Hamish getting older. I blink and already he’s grown so much, and I don’t want to think about what either of us will miss. What I almost missed.”

John tugged him impossibly closer, kissing his temple again and holding his lips there for a long moment as he gathered his thoughts. Finally, Sherlock pulled back a bit, wiped at his damp eyes, and said, “What was he doing?”

“Who? Oh, Hal. He was writing a wish list.”

“Ah. For Christmas? It’s only November.”

“I’ll assume so. Mrs. McDowell had them write one so that they could make sure whoever knew what they wanted.”

Before Sherlock could respond, there was a clatter of small feet and then a six-year-old launching himself onto the sofa in between his parents, clutching a sheet of paper in his hand.

“My list is done!” Hamish exclaimed as he wiggled closer.

Their arms automatically went around him as John said, “Can we see it now?”

“Yes!”

John took the paper and held it steady so he and Sherlock could see.

What they read stole their breaths.

 _My wishes  
By Hamish Watson-Holmes_

 _For Uncle Mycroft: a new umbrella that’s not black  
For Uncle Greg: a new coat like Father’s because he thinks his is cool  
For Aunt Harry: a new set of paintbrushes and lots of paper and paints  
For Aunt Sarah: a new book on ~~patho pathologie~~ pathology  
For Aunt Anthea: a new phone case so her hands won’t hurt  
For Aunt Molly: a new mug and lots of tea  
For Mrs. Hudson: new slippers and a book of murder ~~miste misterys~~ mysteries  
For Dad: a new jumper so when he wears it he can imagine me hugging him  
For Father: a scrapbook of the cases I ~~helpped~~ helped him with so he can remember what we did together_

Sherlock and John both had to wipe away a few quiet tears as they got to the end of their son’s list.

“Hamish, you forgot your wish,” Sherlock said when he could trust his voice.

Hamish wiggled free and scampered off towards the kitchen. He stopped and ran back to the sofa, flinging his arms around his parents.

“I have you and Dad, I don’t need to wish for anything else.”


End file.
